Saving my life — One British costume drama at a time.

Charles Dickens is My Mentor

The term “mentor” used to give me fits. In my ignorance I confused it with the insipid term “role model,” and my hackles would rise and I would protest that I would never be so derivative as to need or want to model myself at all, much less model myself after someone else.

When I was unemployed, I was firmly in Austen territory: A woman left to feeling that her worth is measured by everything but her ability to labor. Elinor Dashwood and Fanny Price.

Now that I am working again, I am planted firmly in Dickens territory. Nicholas Nickelby, David Copperfield, Pip. I’m surrounded by characters coworkers who tickle my imagination and make me laugh (in the most affectionate way possible) quietly behind my office door.

(I had a mentor once. I had a boss who made me understand that mentor meant so much more than “guide” or “teacher.” Mentor, in the case of Fred, meant motivator, believer, and companion. My very first business trip with him, we argued over the plot of the movie Sorcerer (William Friedkin fans!) and we each ordered two tall beers from the stewardess because we knew it would be forever before she came around to us again. A beer-drinking mentor – the very best kind.)

In the last few weeks I have been struggling to characterize the man who is my boss. The one man in an office of capable, driven, affable and endlessly kind women. Busy women. Accomplishing so much.

In trying to describe Ted to myself, I kept peregrinating around Charles Dickens. I would meander through the books and stories, briefly landing on Wilkins Micawber from David Copperfield, but rejecting that parallel; Micawber was kind and avuncular, but had failed in so many basic ways. Not Ted. No.

Mentally thumbing through all of Dickens, I failed to find the character I was looking for. But I knew he was there. I knew it . There. Just beyond my mental reach. My boss is Dickensian in the very best possible way. Dignified but truly hilarious in a dry, self-effacing way. Paternal as the day is long. He cooks an elaborate and meticulous lunch for his staff each Tuesday, calling us all together to enjoy a leisurely meal, inviting us each to declare something for which we are thankful, each in our turn. Never too busy to spend more than a few minutes with each staffer, encouraging, inquiring, listening, sharing the details of his own agenda. I’m touched and overwhelmed by his kindness. The simplicity of his kindness.

But kindness alone does not a mentor make. Ted has invested some serious trust and faith in my abilities. As someone who has worked alone for many years, I am aware that this interaction and investment is a currency beyond, well, currency. Suddenly, I’m Nicholas Nickelby. This is awesome.

I come home from work. I start dinner. Still convivial and calm from my day at my new happy office, I sip a glass of Australian wine as I chop and sauté. I’m smiling. I think about my day. I’m happy. My children are infected by my mood as well. I think about Ted and my new coworkers. Ted takes simple gestures and makes then grand. It’s a feeling he has planted among his staff. It’s …It’s ..

It’s Fezziwig. It’s Mr. Fezziwig from A Christmas Carol.

As his apprentice Ebenezer Scrooge remarks, “He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune.”

That’s Ted. I am certain that in our association, Ted will teach me many things professionally. It’s inevitable. But I am also more than certain that Ted, by his benevolent example, has already begun to teach me the power of the simple, caring gesture. The power of faith invested.